You Never Can Tell
by EspressoShot
Summary: You might have loved him a little bit, and a part of you thinks he was the best you'll ever do.


_It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well.  
__You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle.  
__And now young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell  
__"__C'est la vie," say the old folks.  
__It goes to show you never can tell._

The first morning you wake up puking, you figure it's just because you drank too much the night before. You tend to get headaches when you're hung over, but you've seen Curly, and your stepfather, and even Tim from time to time, puking their guts out after a long night at the bar or at a party. You figure it was bound to happen to you sometime. So you take a cold shower, drink some coffee, suck it up, and go to school. You do your makeup during first period. Mr. Hughes fusses at you, but you just roll your eyes and keep doing what you're doing. He doesn't have the balls to send you to the principal. Perfecting your winged eyeliner is a better use of your time than actually paying attention to him. Who needs fucking algebra, anyway?

But instead of recovering from what you thought was a hangover, you just get worse. You keep getting sick in the mornings, you're starving and eat like a pig all the time, and you can't handle perming Evie Boucher's hair because of the smell. Your skirts aren't fitting right, and your bra can hardly contain your tits any more. When you miss your period for the second time in a row, you know. You fake the flu and stay in bed for a week.

XXX

Curly met Pete Robinson in the reformatory last year, when he was locked up for his pathetic attempt at robbing a liquor store. Pete had stolen a car, and is even stupider than Curly. But from the minute he met you, Pete was smitten.

Pete isn't half bad, you guess. Sure he's an idiot, but there are worse things he could be. He could be a drunk, like your stepfather. He could hit you, like your dad used to do to your mom. He could be a dropout like Curly. At least Pete got his GED while he was locked up, and he has a job now. He makes you laugh sometimes. And the fact that he's obsessed with you gets creepy, but it's sweet for the most part. It's nice to have somebody care about you as much as he does.

You don't know if he's the father of your baby. You've been with a few other guys. But you know that Pete will go along with it without asking questions. He won't put up a fight or try to chicken out and run like the other guys. And maybe, just maybe, he'll be an OK father.

So the Saturday after you stop pretending to be sick, you pull him away from Curly and into the alley behind Benny's. You hope that the loose blouse you're wearing hides how fat you've gotten, and it certainly helps that it's dark.

"You feelin' better?" Pete asks. "Curly said you been sick."

You light a cigarette. "I'm fine. I was fakin' the whole time."

"That desperate to get out of school, huh?"

"I can't fuckin' stand algebra."

Pete laughs and lights a cigarette for himself. "Hey, you wanna' get out of here? I don't got money for my bar tab; seems like a good time to get out of here."

"I'm pregnant," you blurt.

You don't know why you said it here, now, or like that. You were planning on buying him a drink, or at least a Coke, and slowly leading up to the news. But you're terrified, the cigarette you're smoking is a fucking _menthol_, and you just got ahead of yourself.

You look at Pete and try to gauge his reaction.

"Really?" he asks.

You nod. "Pretty damn sure."

"So … Guess you're tellin' me this 'cause it's mine?"

"You catch on fast, Pete."

The two of you stand in silence for a minute. Your cigarette burns out, and you absently let it fall to the ground. Pete just stands there, tapping his foot and flicking his lighter open and closed. He's starting to piss you off.

"I ain't goin' to no home," you say. "It's my kid, and I'm fuckin' keepin' it." Your voice hardly sounds like your own.

Pete shakes his head. "No. No, you ain't goin' away. I'll… We'll…"

His voice trails off, and he sighs. "You wanna get married?"

You could've sworn that you saw a little bit of sparkle in his eyes, and you feel the corners of your mouth trying to turn up into a smile in spite of yourself.

"Yeah," you reply. "OK."

XXX

You burst into Tim and Curly's room early the next morning. They're just waking up, but you didn't sleep all night.

"Pete Robinson asked me to marry him last night, and I said yes!" you say.

"Like hell you did," Tim says. "You're sixteen fucking years old."

"Grandma Mary got married when she was fifteen," you say. "She had ma a year later."

"Somehow, Angel, I just can't imagine you having ten children before you're thirty like she did."

"Or stayin' with the same guy for sixty years like she did," Curly says. Tim laughs.

"Well, he asked me and I said yes. There's nothin' ya'll can do about it."

"Maybe not," Tim says. "But you think this is gonna' sit with Ma and Ron, you're out of your damn mind."

You leave their room in a huff, stomping down the short hallway toward your own room. You think you're imagining the footsteps behind you, but then you almost slam the door in Curly's face.

"For Christ's sake, put some pants on," you say.

"The hell are you doin'?" Curly hisses. He closes the door behind the two of you. "You hardly even like Pete. Why the hell would you marry him?"

"You're right, I don't like Pete. I _love_ him. And I'm going to have ten children with him and we'll be married until we die."

Curly's eyes get big. "You're pregnant?"

"I never said anything about that."

"That rat bastard. I'll kill him. I will fucking kill him."

"Yeah, then my kid won't have a father. Real bright idea you've got there, Curly."

"No father is better than having fucking _Pete Robinson_ as a father."

"Fuck you. He's _your_ friend.

"Yeah, so I know how fuckin' skuzzy he is better than anyone."

"You also gotta' know that he's head-over-heels for me."

Curly sighs heavily. "When's the wedding?"

"Next weekend, I guess."

"Can I be the flower girl?"

XXX

Your parents hate each other instantly. To your folks, Pete is the guy with the police record who deflowered their precious baby and got her pregnant. To Pete's parents, you're the hussy who seduced their angelic son and trapped him with a pregnancy. You're surprised that the courthouse wedding and early dinner at the Chinese restaurant doesn't end in a fistfight, and when you get to Pete's and go back to his bedroom – your bedroom now, too – his joke about consummating the marriage makes you cry.

But you have to give him credit. He pulls you into a hug, hands you a box of tissues, and lets you cry. He even kisses the top of your head a couple of times. And when you're done crying, he just tucks you into bed, lies down next to you, and wraps an arm around your waist. It _is _pretty sweet of him.

XXX

You get your period a week later. It's a hell of a time for it to show up, over two months late. And this one is a doozie. You skip school, don't go out with your friends or to see your parents, and hardly get out of bed. All you can do is curl up into the fetal position and try not to cry.

Pete hates leaving you to go to work. He kisses your forehead every morning before he leaves, and he brings you a chocolate bar every night after work. You almost wish you were pregnant. He's really not so bad.

XXX

You've finally managed to crawl out of bed and drag yourself into the kitchen. There's nothing in the fridge, so you have to make do with water and some stale crackers that you found in the pantry.

You're leaning against the kitchen counter, muscling down the crackers and sipping on the water, when you hear footsteps coming up behind you. You immediately smell stale whiskey. You turn around, and Pete's father pins you against the counter.

"Y'know, Pete's just a boy," he slurs. He grinds his hips against yours, and you think you'll throw up. "I can show you what a real man is like."

You slap him across the face and take advantage of his stunned state to bolt into the bedroom you share with Pete and lock the door.

XXX

You have all your things packed when Pete gets home from work. He cocks an eyebrow.

"What's up?" he asks.

"We're getting divorced," you say. You breeze past him and out the front door. You walk the entire half-mile back to your house, dragging your suitcase behind you.

XXX

You don't cry. When Pete shows up at your house, you have Tim tell him that he'll beat his face in unless he gets the hell away. You keep your head held high at school and ignore the rumors, even though their words cut into you like knives.

You just want to stay home and drink a bottle of wine by yourself on Friday night, but your friends insist on taking you out. So you put on something cute and do your makeup, even though your heart isn't in it, and go with them.

It's just your luck that you run into Mark Jennings, and, of course, he has Bryon Douglass in tow. You know better, but they have vodka, you're feeling sorry for yourself, and your girlfriends are starting to get on your nerves.

They invite you into their car, and it's like you're hypnotized. You can't say no. You grab your purse, say goodbye to your friends, and go with them.

* * *

S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Chuck Berry owns "You Never Can Tell".

I'd love some reviews! :D


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